


Fall of the Heart of Frost

by Rahar_Moonfire



Series: RotG Kinkmeme [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Cock Tease, Community: rotg_kink, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahar_Moonfire/pseuds/Rahar_Moonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Pitch wants to do is read "Fall of the House of Usher" in peace, but young Jack Frost is proving to be quite...the distraction. Well, his tongue is at least. </p>
<p>Written for the RotG Kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the RotG Kinkmeme on Dreamwidth.org.
> 
> Prompt: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/1511.html?thread=1499111#cmt1499111
> 
> I also changed my writing style a bit in order to fit the Poe atmosphere. I hope I did ok.

"'During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was -but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me -upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain -upon the bleak walls -upon the vacant eye-like windows -upon a few rank sedges -and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees -with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium -the bitter lapse into everyday life -the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an icinESsssssss-'"

The long, lingering feeling of teeth sliding tantalyzingly along his cock was enough of a surprise to snap the dark reader's attention away from the story he'd been thoroughly engulfed in. He always loved Poe's work. The mortal had always managed to bring such poetry, such pleasurable terror to the darkness. The man made the darkness attractive. The terrifying spectre had loved tormenting that poor man. His writing was worth the effort.

But the dark spectre had to admit that, despite the pleasurable terror of this - _The Fall of the House of Usher_ \- tale, he had to bite his tongue against the extremely distracting terror of a darker, more sensual pleasure. That of young Jack Frost's slippery, warm, convulsing mouth.

Since the beginning of his reading, the younger spirit had taken it upon himself to attempt to drive the dark, conniving mind of the infamous King of Nightmares to the borders of sanity just as the dark lord had once done to one Edgar Allen Poe. Only it would appear the darkness this youth was driven to embrace was a less terrifying black and a more sensual red.

No, crimson.

Yes, crimson. The color of blood that spills from an open wound and pools beneath a dead or dying body. Crimson. The color of the darkest lust that leaves marks of black and purple upon pale skin. Crimson. The color of bruised and abused lips currently parted and encircling the dark spectre's crimson and pulsing cock. Crimson. The color this nightmarish man -Pitch Black- will cover the young Jack Frost in.

Drawing a deep breath and gathering his wits about him, the grey skinned, golden eyed Pitch Black began to read once more.

"'There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart -an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it -I paused to think -what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy'" -young Frost's tongued his frenulum- "'fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us,'" -Frost was sucking, licking, kissing his engorged sacks- "'still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black' - _AH!_ "

A soft laugh was heard bubbling forth from the snow white youth currently occupying the floor between the dark man's legs. Lowering the engraved anthology, Pitch beheld the soft face of Jack Frost.

Eternally young, forever frozen at the age eighteen, eyes the color of glacial ice, ages older then could be percieved from just the youth's body, gazed back. A dark, perverted twinkle danced in those ice blue depths. Skin as soft and unmarred as newly fallen snow glowed like a pure star in the dark shadows of the Nightmare King's layer. Hair soft as feathers and white as the silvery light through snow-laden clouds reflected on snow-covered ground fell every which way as if the wind had caressed it, leaving its mark.

Innocent, pure, white, heavenly, angel, Frost.

Dark, terror, shadow, hell, demon, Pitch.

A pair forged in the crimson shadow of lust and need. They were a pair that made angels weep and demons shriek.

A single, long-fingered hand caressed the pale skin, cupping the pale cheek with seemingly infinite tenderness. "It would appear patience is not a virtue you value, Jack Frost." Golden eyes met ice blue and held them, locking them in a gilded cage only lust could break. "Well then, shall we move to the meat of the story? I hear burying a young woman alive is quite exhilarating. Perhaps more so then your delicious tongue."

Glacial chips hardened and a dark, crimson smirk pulled at ever youthful lips. "Is that a challenge, oh Lord of Shadows?"

Dark shoulders rose and fell in a mockery on nonchalance. "Perhaps."

Grey fingers tightened their hold, tugging the pale youth abruptly from his relaxed sprawl to an alert straining half-stand, half-kneel. Slender, pale fingers gripped black pants on either side of the youthful body in an effort to maintain balance as glittering ice chips melted beneath flesh hoods.

"Or perhaps," the dark voice whispered in a single, pale ear, "it is a dare. No words can you speak, your mouth must be busy on my crimson flesh. No sounds can you utter, lest I turn your ear abruptly red. Never can you remove your mouth from my flesh until I finish, lest you wish to glimpse your crimson liquid spill from your heart as you scream my name, moan in pleasure, and feel another orifice filled with my crimson flesh."

Puffs of air glittered as they turn to mist, brushing against a grey toned ear. Pale ocean eyes half hooded, darken as the dark shadow of lust begins to take root in their darkest depths. A fluttering heart, light as a feather and fluttering like a seagull swept out to sea by a storm desperate for rest, but nowhere to land, pounds against the invading emotions. Trying to take hold of what it once held fast. But ice is a slippery thing. It knows neither friend nor foe. It simply is.

And it can not, will not be denied. Especially if the ice is dyed in the darkest crimson.


	2. Concentration

"' "You must not-' ugh '-you shall not behold this !" said I, shudderingly,'" Pitch shuddered as Jack steady teasing caused tingles throughout his body, "'to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle vi-OH-lencsssss, from the window to a seat. "These ah-a-appearances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical phen- _mmmm_ -onmennna not UGHN-common - or it may be that they have their GHA-stly origin in the rank miasma of the tarnnn.' Jack. 'Let us close this casement ; - the air is chilling,'" -damn that imp, nipping at every word pertaining to cold- "'and dangeroussss to your frame-mmmm. Here is one AH-of your favorite romances. I w-w-will reeeeead, and you shall LISTEN,'" Jack snorted derisively punctuated by a particularly long, painful, needy, teasing suck dragging his pearly teeth along hard, crimson flesh drawing a needy keen from the dark spectre- "'and so we will pass away this terrible night together."'"

Unable to continue, the Lord of Shadows let the anthology slip from nerveless fingers as his eyes drooped closed and he focused solely on keeping what little control he had left locked deep within. Pale hair, feather soft, tickled grey-toned thighs as slender fingers rolled, squeezed, brushed, and _pinched_ engorged sacks.

Strange how this youth, so pure, so white, so untouched would become so dark. A fallen angel. The dark spectre could no more resist the snowy purity then a child could resist a sweet. But this innocent, this pale youth was Jack Frost. If the long feared Winter could submit to him with but a single touch, then what hope did a King of Nightmares have? For what goes better then cold and dark?

Pitch Black shuddered violently, then two hands suddenly tangled themselves in snowy locks and began moving the youth's head of their own will. Frost choked as he was forced to swallow more of his lover then he previously had then winced as the fingers pulled his hair dragging his head back along the pulsing flesh. The pace was harsh and sharp, colored by lust the shade of the crimson liquid rushing through their veins.

His lips were sore and swallowing a chore the fair one barely managed to accomplish around his mouthful. His breaths were ragged and not nearly deep enough to satisfy his deprived lungs. But the dark lord did not seem to notice and if he did he payed it no heed. For though Frost may conquer darkness, darkness has a way of weakening even the strongest resolve.

And thus it was that young Frost found himself the tool of Pitch Black, Lord of Shadows, King of Nightmares, and Master of Fear to relieve himself of his hot, pressing load. What control pure, young Frost once had was gone. His mouth locked open, his throat forcefully relaxed as he struggled to just breathe. His hands, formerly used to pleasure his lover teasingly, were now gripping strong, grey thighs with white knuckled need as his swollen, used mouth was harshly, completely, and absolutely fucked.

And when Pitch moaned, his hand slamming Frost's snowy, whimpering head forward, he arched against his chair and released. Tears filled the youth's shuttered crystal eyes as he coughed and choked down his lover's seed. When it was over, gentle grey hands tugged at lank, snowy locks and slowly Frost became free of Pitch. Bleary crystal eyes beheld the now limp, soft flesh before them still dripping milky seed and drew a deep, shaky breath.

"Well done," the velvet voice Frost had long ago begun to desire murmured above him. Gentle hands tilted his head up so brilliant gold and dark blue met, a thumb brushing away a stray tear with surprising tenderness. "Ah, your face is always beautiful when you have been thoroughly used." A finger traced full lips, "Your lips used and swollen," across a smooth cheek, "face flushed and tender," along a crystal eye, "eyes misty like frosted glass," and raked through snowy strands, "and hair damp and limp." The wandering hand returned to cup the youth's cheek. "Poor boy. So focused on bringing me to pleasure, that you forgot your own."

The used child twitched as his own crimson need between his now useless pale legs throbbed. Eyebrows like snow drifts pulled low in mild confusion as grey hands gently tugged the child's body up to his knees before wrapping strong arms around the slender waist pulling the shivering body to him. One hand moving to support the limp body, planting itself steadily between well-defined shoulder blades. The other arm snaked around, down the knobby back, fingers slipping down under the fabrics of Frost's pants and between two pert cheeks to brush the wrinkled hole.

Jack squeaked at the sensation then moaned, eyes rolling back in his pale head, as spectral fingers brushed, teased, and stroked his need. Everything was lust, crimson, and dark as he gasped for air, his long drowned lungs never seeming to get enough oxygen. And when he came, what remained of his sight filled with brilliant white, before he succumbed to the all-encompassing darkness.

Feeling his lover's body go limp in his arms, Pitch lowered the pale form to the fur-covered ground. Frost always appeared the very image of innocence in sleep, but he knew better then most the spark of darkness that grew and festered within the child's frozen soul. He knew Frost would always return to him, and each time he did, he fell further and further into the shadows.

He drew a single breath and whispered as a eulogy, "'And the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the' Heart of Frost."


End file.
